


Four People Michael Phelps Kissed and the One That Kissed Him

by thesaddestboner



Category: Olympics RPF, Swimming RPF
Genre: 2008 Summer Olympics, Crack, Crush, F/M, Gen, Kissing, M/M, Male Friendship, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-23
Updated: 2008-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 14:28:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/492192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>This is so not his night.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four People Michael Phelps Kissed and the One That Kissed Him

**Author's Note:**

> My first real attempt at Olympic RPF. Let’s imagine the American Olympians went to a party during the Games or something. This probably constitutes crack. Thanks to [**almightychrissy**](http://almightychrissy.livejournal.com/) for the look-over! :D 
> 
>   **Written after the 2008 Olympics.**
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

**i. Natalie Coughlin**

Natalie has a bottle of beer in one hand and the other one is groping shamelessly under Michael’s t-shirt. She’s obviously drunk, stumbling against him to too-loud electronica shit that makes Michael’s ears ache.

The heel of Natalie’s pump catches on something, and Michael puts a steadying arm around her waist. She starts to giggle and tosses her hair back, and Michael can feel the condensation from the beer bottle soaking into the back of his shirt when she loops an arm around his neck.

Natalie presses her hips against Michael’s, firmly, and he sighs. It’s too bad they’re both kind of drunk—well, okay, Natalie is hammered, but he’s only buzzed—or else he would have suggested they grab a spare bottle of champagne and go up to his hotel room.

“Michael,” she yells over the music, whacking him on the chest, “Michael.”

He leans in, sliding his hands over her hips. “What?”

“Kiss me,” she says, tipping her head up and tightening an arm around his neck.

Michael splays a large hand on the small of her back. The flashing strobe lights catch on the chunks of blonde in Natalie’s hair, setting her alight, and Michael reaches up to push her hair away from the back of her neck. She smiles at him and Michael dips his head, presses his mouth against hers. Her lips are wet and the kiss is sloppy, almost disgusting. She tastes like beer and waxy cherry-flavored lipgloss. Michael parts her lips with his tongue—

Natalie jerks away and gives him a light shove in the chest. “ _Michael_ ,” she whines, and he stares at her through his own semi-drunken haze, confused.

“ _What_?” he asks.

Natalie looks horrified. “Did you just slip me _tongue_?”

Michael nods slowly, wondering if somebody’s playing a trick on him. He half expects Lochte and Peirsol to jump from behind the giant speaker, pointing and laughing. Michael knows they’d just eat this shit up.

“I didn’t say you could use _tongue_.” Natalie turns on her heel and flounces away in a pissy huff, and Michael watches after her, dumbstruck, as she winds her way through the crowded dance floor, still clutching onto that beer.

Michael scrubs his hands over his face and groans.

This is so not his night.

  


**ii. Shawn Johnson**

**  
**

“You all right?” A big hand thumps between Michael’s shoulder blades and a plastic cup of what is probably more beer is pushed into his hand.

Michael accepts the beer and raises his head. It’s Aaron Peirsol. Fucker is probably enjoying this. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks, Aaron.” He takes a sip and tracks Natalie with his eyes. “Fuckin’ tease.”

“Oh, what now?” Aaron asks, slipping his hand away.

“Natalie. She asked me to kiss her, and I did, and she just—” Michael flaps his hand dismissively in her direction. “Flipped her shit and stomped off.”

“Dude, she’s got a boyfriend,” Aaron says.

Like that changes anything. Natalie _was_ the one who asked him to kiss her. “Like that changes anything,” Michael grunts, taking another sip of beer. “She started it.”

“Whatever, man. If you’re really that desperate for a hookup, I could always set you up with—”

“No,” Michael says.

“—that cute little gymnast, Shawn? I think she has a crush on you.”

“Dude, she’s a fucking _kid_ ,” Michael says.

“Yeah, well, so are you.” Aaron grins.

“And you’re old. Everyone’s a kid to you,” Michael teases, whacking him lightly on the shoulder.

"Shut up. I'm only two years older than you." Aaron whacks back. "If I'm old, what's that make you?" He nods in Shawn’s direction and Michael follows his gaze. She’s schmoozing with a gaggle of her fellow gymnasts, giggling and peering over in his direction behind her hands. When Shawn catches Michael’s eye, she giggles some more and ducks behind the tall one, Nastia.

“You can _not_ seriously be encouraging me to lead on a sixteen-year-old kid,” Michael finally says, glancing back at Aaron.

“Oh, come on. The girl likes you. Just smile at her and you’ll have her eating out of the palm of your hand.” Aaron gives Michael a friendly nudge in the gymnasts’ direction with his shoulder.

Michael sighs. “I guess it can’t really hurt.” He shrugs Aaron off and heads in the girls’ direction.

“Hi, Michael!” Shawn waves him over and offers him a big grin.

“Hey, Shawn.” Michael smiles back and sticks out his hand. Shawn looks at it with questioningly raised eyebrows, and Michael pulls his hand back. Leave it to a girl—a fucking _kid_ , even—to turn him into a bumbling idiot.

“Um.” Shawn offers him another smile, tempered and shy this time, and one of her teammates snickers behind her back and gives her a helpful jab. “Ow, Alicia!” Shawn turns and casts a glare over her shoulder, reaching behind to rub her back.

“So,” Michael says, ever articulate.

“I wanted to give you something—” Shawn starts, but Alicia cuts in, and Michael doesn’t quite trust the glint in her eyes.

“Oh, she definitely wants to give you something,” Alicia calls over Shawn’s shoulder.

“ _Alicia_ ,” Shawn gasps, eyes widening in horror. “You’re not helping!”

Nastia just rolls her eyes and pulls Alicia with her to the bar.

“You wanted to give me something?” Michael cringes inwardly at how _weird_ that sounds.

Shawn pulls something out of her pocket and presses it into Michael’s hand. He glances down. It’s a keychain, with a picture of the two of them, enclosed between two sheets of plastic laminate.

“That’s really—” Michael scrunches his forehead, searches for the right word. _Weird._ Diagnosis: Rude. Discard. _Nice_. Diagnosis: Lame. Discard. “—sweet of you, Shawn.” He slips the keychain into his pocket and gives her a smile.

She starts to beam, positively glowing, and Michael figures he hasn’t messed up yet. “I’m glad you like it,” she says, sounding compressed, like she’s just gulped down helium. Michael wouldn’t be entirely surprised if she suddenly started floating up to the ceiling.

“Thanks. I really appreciate it.” Michael hesitates just a moment before leaning down and brushing his lips lightly over hers.

He can feel Shawn go rigid against him, and hears a sharp little intake of breath. Michael straightens up and looks down at her. He’s pretty sure she’s stopped breathing. Shawn stares up at him, wide-eyed, mouth slackened in surprise.

“Um,” Michael says. “. . . Breathe?”

Shawn lets out a high-pitched, nervous giggle that probably only dogs can hear and presses her hands over her mouth. He can make out a muffled squeal and an “Oh my _god_ ,” before she turns on her heel and flees.

Michael blinks after her.

“Not your night, huh?” Aaron and Ryan sidle up to him, wearing matching shit-eating grins.

“Fuck off,” Michael says, shaking his head. Shawn is at the bar, jibbering excitedly to Nastia and Alicia. She makes big, sweeping gestures and presses her hands over her heart. All three girls glance in Michael’s direction and Michael thinks he even sees Shawn swoon.

Well, at least _one_ thing’s gone right—sort of—tonight.

 

  


**iii. Misty May-Treanor**

****  


Michael loses Aaron and Ryan at the bar—of course—and goes looking for familiar faces on the dance floor. He spots Misty May-Treanor sitting by herself in a secluded booth, sipping on a beer. Michael’s surprised; he hasn’t seen Misty without her teammate, Kerri Walsh, since Team USA got into Beijing.

“Hey.” Michael steps up next to Misty and gives her a salute. “What’s up?”

Misty smiles at him and waves him in. “Hey yourself! Nothing much, just watching Kerri make a fool of herself on the dance floor.” Misty gestures to said dance floor, where said Kerri is indeed making a fool of herself.

“You’re not out there dancing?” Michael asks, sliding across from her.

“Nah. It’s Kerri’s turn,” Misty says, resting her chin in her hands.

“You all right?” he asks.

“Oh, yeah. I’m fine.” Michael doesn't think Misty sounds _fine_ , exactly. She fiddles with a bottle of beer, flicking her gaze back out toward the dance floor. "Just a lot of stuff going on right now."

“Yeah? What kind of stuff?” Michael asks, leaning back, slinging an arm over the back of the seat. He’s pretty sure he looks irresistible right now. He wonders if Misty would go for it, even with the rings on her finger.

“Well, Kerri and I both want to start families,” Misty explains on a melancholy sigh, but Michael isn’t so sure he believes her.

“Both of you?” Michael prods gently. “Or just her?”

Misty sighs again. “Both of us,” she insists, “but it’s still gonna be weird, you know?" Misty puts the bottle down on the table and leans back in her seat. She glances at Michael and he can feel the weight of the words she isn't saying, hanging heavily between them like ripe fruit ready for picking.

Michael nods slowly. “Yeah. I know what you mean.” He leans in a little bit and rests a big hand on her bare shoulder. Her skin is warm, sunkissed, and she smells like coconut Sunscreen and sand. Michael wonders if she tastes like sand too.

Misty offers him a small smile. “Thanks for listening. Didn’t mean to talk your ear off.”

“Don’t mention it. 's fine.” Michael gives her shoulder a light squeeze and pauses briefly, before leaning in and giving her a light kiss. She doesn't taste like sand, and Michael's almost surprised. She tastes—

Someone clears their throat behind them and Michael jerks away. Kerri is eyeing them, her hands on her hips. She definitely doesn’t look pleased.

“Oh, Kerri, hey.” Misty looks nervous, like someone who was just caught doing something she shouldn’t have been doing.

Michael looks from Kerri to Misty and back again. He definitely missed something here. He offers Misty a hasty apology and slinks away, feeling shamed and not entirely sure why.

Michael can feel Kerri’s eyes on the back of his neck all the way across the dance floor.

Tonight’s shaping up to be pretty weird.

 

  


**iv. Aaron Peirsol**

****  


Michael slumps against the cool bathroom tile and closes his eyes. He’s never really understood why it’s always much cooler in the bathroom, but at least Kerri Walsh isn’t giving him the evil eye anymore. Or, make that ‘at least he can’t squirm uncomfortably while Kerri Walsh is giving him the evil eye.’ He’s pretty sure that Kerri Walsh will still be giving him the evil eye when he finally emerges from the sanctuary of the men’s room.

The bathroom door creaks open and Michael looks up from his spot against the tiles.

Aaron. Again. Dammit.

“Hey Mike.” Aaron closes the door behind him and leans against it. “You feeling okay? You look kinda—” Aaron flaps his hand.

“I’m fine,” Michael says. “I think I just stumbled into a lesbian melodrama.”

Aaron raises his eyebrows. “Lesbian melodrama? Cool. Can I watch?”

Michael scowls. “Don’t be an ass.”

Aaron laughs and crosses his arms over his chest. “Figured it couldn’t hurt to ask.”

Michael rubs a hand through his hair. “It’s been a weird night. I’ve, like, made out with three chicks already. Kinda, sorta.”

“Got any numbers to show for it?” Aaron asks. Michael shakes his head. “Poor thing.”

“I’m just, like, a chick magnet, I guess.” Michael manages a smile he isn’t really feeling at the moment. “The ladies, they love me. From the bleachers they—”

“I’m going to punch you in the throat,” Aaron says.

Michael laughs. “I’d love to see you try.”

“I’m just drunk enough to,” Aaron threatens, pushing away from the door.

He takes a swing at Michael and his fist connects, but Aaron is also pretty drunk, and he only ends up giving Michael a light tap with his fist. Aaron falls against Michael’s chest and he throws an arm around Aaron to keep him from hitting the ground.

Aaron looks up at Michael and grins. “I win.”

“You win? What? We didn’t even bet anything,” Michael says, standing Aaron up and straightening his stupid ‘Bikini Inspector’ t-shirt.

“Still, I win.” Aaron leaves a hand at Michael’s side and rubs his thumb over Michael’s hip slowly.

“Aaron, what are you—”

“—nothing,” Aaron says.

“I don’t think feeling me up constitutes nothing,” Michael says. “Also, you’re drunk.”

“So are you,” Aaron says, still rubbing his thumb over the point of Michael’s hip.

“Are you always this handsy when you’re wasted?” Michael asks.

“Yep.” Aaron scrunches his face in a grin and Michael stills his hand over Aaron’s on his hip before moving it down. “Just say the magic word and I’ll stop.”

“Please,” Michael says.

“That’s not the magic word.” Aaron giggles.

Something pretty important chooses that exact moment to snap at the back of Michael’s brain. (Later, he’ll accuse Aaron of breaking his heterosexuality.) Michael leans in and presses his mouth against Aaron’s, wrapping a big, warm hand around the back of Aaron’s neck.

“Dude, what the hell!”

Michael freezes and he can feel Aaron’s mouth make an ‘O’ of shock against his own.

Tonight has officially crossed over into the surreal.

 

  


**v. Ryan Lochte**

****  


Aaron backs away quickly and wipes the back of his hand over his mouth. “Ryan, way to sneak up on a guy,” Aaron brays, a little too loudly to be natural.

Ryan looks from Aaron to Michael. “Dude, what. The _hell_.”

“Could you stop saying that?” Michael backs against the wall and loops his arms across his chest.

Ryan splutters. “The hell!”

“I need to puke.” Aaron staggers into one of the stalls and shuts the door behind him. Michael can hear him retch.

Ryan, in the midst of his shock, still finds the time to crack a joke. “That bad of a kisser, huh?”

“Shut up,” Michael snaps.

“Dude, don’t tell me to shut up. I just caught two of my friends _kissing_. In the bathroom of a nightclub. This is so fucking weird,” Ryan says.

“I heard that,” Aaron calls out from his stall.

“Doesn’t change the fact it’s _fucking weird_ ,” Ryan tosses over his shoulder at Aaron’s stall.

“Look, I can explain,” Michael says, rubbing his hands over his face but, no, he really can’t. He doesn’t have the words.

“No, you really can’t,” Ryan says, with an incredulous laugh.

“Okay, maybe I can’t. I dunno. Why’s it even a big deal? I’m always touching other guys. I’m always touching _you_ ,” Michael says, on the defensive.

“I know that,” Ryan says.

“So, why are acting you all weird about it?” Michael asks.

Ryan looks around, somewhat suspiciously, before leaning in and pressing his mouth against Michael’s in what Michael is pretty sure is the best kiss he’s ever had. Ryan braces both his hands on the tiles, on either side of Michael’s head, and thrusts his tongue into Michael’s mouth.

Michael reaches up, fingers fluttering near Ryan’s cheek, before finally resting his hand on Ryan’s shoulder.

Ryan backs away, panting, his chest heaving. “That’s why.”

Michael just looks at him, brain gone to mush. Aaron might’ve broken his heterosexuality, but Ryan smashed the broken pieces to smithereens under his heels. Ryan looks at him expectantly.

“Uh,” is all Michael can say.

“Right,” Ryan says with a grin. He leans in and kisses Michael again.

A flash goes off in their faces, and Michael temporarily sees red and white stars. He half expects to see some blue in there too, but it never comes. When his vision finally seeps back in, Michael can see Aaron grinning over Ryan’s shoulder.

“Aaron!” Michael peers over Ryan’s shoulder and glares.

Aaron tucks a disposable camera in his pocket and pats it protectively. “This is going on my Myspace!”

Michael presses his hands to his face and groans.

This is _so_ not his night.

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


End file.
